


Until He Is Caught

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is trying to get John's attention by teasing him. "Trying" being the operative word here. Written for this prompt (http://community.livejournal.com/sherlockbbc/1861019.html?thread=24389275#t24389275).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until He Is Caught

It started with tea, of course. John woke up, had a piss, washed his face, dressed, and came downstairs to a very odd sight. To someone new to 221B Baker Street it may have seemed normal: His flatmate was setting the table for a small breakfast, having cleared away some bottles containing thumbs in various states of decay. But to John it was as suspicious as coming downstairs to find a stranger on the sofa.

“...Sherlock?” John stepped into the room tentatively.

“Yes?” He turned around with an absolutely unreadable poker face. In one hand he had a spatula with bits of burnt egg stuck to it.

“Good morning,” said John suspiciously. He sat down at the table and watched the kettle come to a boil.

“Good morning.” Sherlock abandoned the eggs and poured a cup of tea.

Or he tried to. He lifted the kettle too high and boiling water splashed onto his stomach. John stood up quickly, his chair knocking back into the counter and took the kettle out of Sherlock’s hands.

“Sherlock!” He guided the taller man down onto a seat. “Are you alright?” John immediately peeled the wet shirt off. Sherlock lifted his arms to cooperate, allowing John to examine the burn closely. It wasn’t severe, but the skin was turning an angry shade of red and would probably be sore for days.

“That was stupid of me,” said Sherlock blandly. John froze and looked up, pulling his hands away from Sherlock’s torso.

“What’s going on?” John demanded. Sherlock tilted his head as if puzzled. “You’re acting weird.” Sherlock’s eyebrow lifted. “Alright, weirder, I mean.”

“It was an accident,” said Sherlock.

“You don’t have accidents.”

“Obviously, I do,” he said as he stood, forcing John to stare petulantly at his collarbone. He had to admit, not even Sherlock would inflict a sprawling first-degree burn on himself on purpose. If he wanted to study that injury specifically he’d have used Anderson or something, and done it openly.

“Well, it’s alright,” said John. “Go sit down, I’ll fetch you some ointment so it doesn’t keep stinging...”

Sherlock obediently moved into the living room and flopped onto his favorite sofa. John dashed upstairs. He felt a bit dull and confused from leaning over Sherlock like that. He had done his best to avoid that sort of thing in the past few months. John’s self-imposed restraint was the result of a combination of two of his personal rules: Business before pleasure, and don’t waste time on the unobtainable. Like seemingly at least two-thirds of the population of London, he found himself drawn to the arrogant, mad Sherlock Holmes in more ways than one. But John knew perhaps better than any of the rest that the only relationship Holmes really invested in was the one with deduction.

“Here. Save yourself some problems later,” John tossed the burn ointment from the stairs before turning into the kitchen to salvage some sort of breakfast. Sherlock snatched it from the air with his long, pale fingers and paused like that for a moment too long, his arm hanging and his abdomen stretched out in the morning sun.

John blinked at him and then shook away, resigned to confusion while he refilled the kettle and set it to heat again. Then he had to soak the pan in hot water to get the crusty bits of egg off. While he waited on both projects he glanced into the next room.

Sherlock was being weird again. He sat on the sofa and stared into space, as if he weren’t thinking about anything in particular, which couldn’t possibly be the case. He was slouched down as well, one arm flopped onto the seat next to him. With his other he rubbed small circles onto the pink skin on his stomach, apparently taking Watson’s advice.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” And when he turned to look at John his eyes were half-lidded. He flicked his hair off of his forehead lazily.

“What-” John started to ask him what he was up to again, and thought better of it. “Nevermind. Would you like a cuppa?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Sherlock said slowly. He didn’t say anything slowly. Ever.

He also didn’t explain himself if he didn’t want to. So John bit his tongue and poured the tea. Then he opened the fridge.

“How’s leftover Chinese for breakfast?”

“Fine,” Sherlock stood up and came into the kitchen, mixing his tea. John took out the extra containers and looked in vain for a clean plate...Sherlock grabbed a box of egg rolls and a cup before going back to the sofa. He flopped down onto his back and balanced his food on his bare stomach. John grabbed a carton of noodles and some chopsticks and sat down in his favorite armchair. He switched on the news.

Sherlock found the news boring, of course. His feet were tapping impatiently in the air just a foot away from John’s elbow. He was unusually quiet, though, and John didn’t even notice that until the first commercial break. He looked over and Sherlock appeared to be absorbed in the process of eating his egg rolls.

 _Very_ absorbed.

Sherlock picked one up. He held it between two fingers delicately, his pinky in the air. He brought it to his lips as if thinking about eating it. Then he opened his mouth wide and slowly put the egg roll inside. Then he bit down and slipped it out again. Then he chewed slowly and swallowed it before starting the whole drawn-out process over again.

“Right,” said John finally, turning off the telly. “What is it. What are you up to?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The bollocks you don’t,” said John. “There’s something going on, and I want in.”

“Oh, you want in, do you?” Sherlock smirked.

With a cheerful _ding_ , a little lightbulb went off above John Watson’s head.

“You’re flirting with me.” Sherlock was silent. “You’ve been trying to tease me all morning!” John’s voice rose. “Did you spill tea on yourself just so I’d take off your shirt? What the hell, Sherlock!” He got to his feet. He felt his face burning.

“I was bored,” Sherlock said.

“Then buy a bloody XBox!” John paused and took a breath, quieting himself. No need to bring Mrs. Hudson in on this. “Sherlock.”

“John.”

“Don’t do that. Any of it. Stop it immediately.”

“You’re angry with me.” Sherlock sounded surprised.

“Of course I’m angry!” John scrubbed at his hair with both hands in frustration. “You can’t just _shoot_ at me like that, I’m not a wall, I’m a person. For fuck’s sake, don’t you know I’ve been-” John stopped himself.

“That you’ve been trying to hide your attraction from me for approximately nine weeks? Yes,” Sherlock reached behind him for his dressing gown, sat up and pulled it on. “I would have thought you’d appreciate some effort towards clear non-verbal communication on my part.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, rubbing his eyes. “You’re shit at non-verbal communication.”

“I disagree,” he said primly, drawing his robe around him. “You’re simply unobservant.” John had to laugh, settling back down in his armchair.

“Nonsense. You and I both know I can hardly keep my eyes off you,” he admitted half-jokingly.

“Looking is not the same as observing,” said Sherlock for perhaps the eight-hundredth time during their acquaintance.

“Yeah, and eating stupidly phallic foods is not the same as flirting, Sherlock.” To John’s surprise, Sherlock _blushed_. He watched closely as the great consulting detective’s face went pink like a schoolboy’s. Then John let his gaze drift down, to his elegant, pale neck and the shadow of his collarbone where it showed from under the blue satin of his dressing gown. Sherlock’s arms were crossed above his stomach and the fingers on one hand were drumming impatiently.

“It’s quite rude to stare, John,” he said. John’s gaze snapped up to those pale eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” said John, and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Sherlock immediately afterwards. John couldn’t believe his ears.

“What?”

“I’m not saying it again,” said Sherlock. “...I didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s an odd situation,” said John gently. He looked down at his food and moved it aside. Sherlock did the same. The two of them sat in the growing silence, not looking at each other.

“May I try something?” said Sherlock casually.

“Yeah,” said John, doing his best not to sound as if his heart rate had just jumped. Sherlock stood up and walked directly towards John, his blue robe billowing behind him as he stepped onto and then over the coffee table. He stood in front of John, back straight, and then leaned down, bracing himself on the arms of the chair.

John had to complete the gap himself, inching forward just enough for their mouths to meet. The kiss was soft, and for some reason John thought that Sherlock’s lips would be cold. But they weren’t, they were warm, and when they withdrew he glanced at down at them, that delicate stern pink, and thought only of getting them again.

He slipped one hand along the line of Sherlock’s jaw, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. Sherlock’s eyes were dancing, glancing and reading John’s face. So John gave him a weak smile before kissing him again, a bit softer this time, and parting his lips slightly so that he could breathe in Sherlock’s warm breath. When he withdrew this time Sherlock was frowning for some reason.

“Move.” He grabbed at John’s arm and guided him to the sofa. “You’re too short for me to stand like that.”

“You’re too tall,” John protested quietly as he was manhandled to his seat. This time Sherlock was a bit more assertive, tilting up John’s face with a long hand under his chin and pressing their mouths together. John opened his mouth again and this time the kiss deepened. Every new sensation came very slowly, as if Sherlock was mentally recording the feeling. Which he probably was. And at the end of each long kiss he would plant a small, soft one, like the signature at the end of a letter.

After a few lazy warm minutes of this John pulled away slightly and leaned his head against Sherlock’s, his eyes closed. He had one hand at the back of Sherlock’s neck and the other stroking the small of his back.

“Why did you lie?” said Sherlock suddenly. “You don’t lie.”

“When?” John’s eyes snapped open and he pulled back, but not completely.

“At Angelo’s. The first time.”

Ah. _It’s all fine._ Right.

“I wasn’t lying,” said John. “It was only sort of later I started...thinking,” he finished weakly.

“At the pool,” said Sherlock. It wasn’t a question, but John answered anyway.

“Yes,” he said. John didn’t really want to know how Sherlock deduced that. He didn’t like to think about the occasion himself.

“Why did you change your mind?” The question slipped out of John’s mouth before he’d even realized it. “You said you were married to your work.” Sherlock’s face locked down tight, revealing nothing.

“...You’re a part of the work,” he said blandly.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Sherlock,” said John nervously. “Look, if this is some kind of experiment for you, all of it, then just leave it. I’m not the sort of person who can-”

“The pool,” said Sherlock.

“What?” said John. But Sherlock did not really have to repeat himself.

 _I will burn...the heart out of you._

 _I’ve been reliably informed that I don’t have one._

 _Oh, but we both know that’s not entirely true, now is it?_

And John remembered the gray eyes flashing on him before focusing again on the maniac. That fear sitting right behind his stomach, the thought that the great Sherlock Holmes was really done for.

“What I said, was,” Sherlock continued, “That I wasn’t looking for anyone. I never was. But you don’t have to be looking for something to find it.”

This sort of talk was making the hair on John’s neck stand up and his stomach twist in on itself. He wanted to go back to before, when they were giggling at crime scenes and throwing things at each other. And maybe back to the kissing as well.

So he dove in, not knowing what would happen. This time he pulled on Sherlock’s gown, unsettling him while their mouths slid together. Sherlock retaliated by pulling back until he was leaning on one arm and John was crouched between his long, long legs, leaning above him like an animal. With his free hand he stroked Sherlock’s neck and shoulders, pushing the dressing gown out of his way. He liked the feel of the taller man’s firm muscled arms, hardened from exercise and his weird fasting.

Suddenly Sherlock fell backwards, and John was crouching above him. Their lips disconnected with an almost comical pop. John almost chased after him again but Sherlock had a half-worried look on his face.

“What?” said John softly. Sherlock looked away, licked his already slick lips, and then met John’s gaze again before speaking.

“Would you like to come to bed with me?” His voice was unusually small. Something in John’s chest twinged not unpleasantly.

“You can’t deduce the answer?” He teased.

“I-” Sherlock actually _hesitated_. Sherlock Holmes. “I don’t usually indulge in physical activities.” He said stiffly. “I would only like you to...be with me if you were to be emotionally available as well.” Sherlock had his gaze fixed on some spot on the ceiling behind John’s head when he added, “Deduction is not one hundred percent accurate when it comes to purely social matters.”

“That’s an understatement,” said John, and he laughed to try and show that it was alright. “I don’t want you just because you’re pretty-” Sherlock glared at him. “-I think you’re extraordinary. All the time. Even when you do horrible things, like play with people.” John sat up and back on his heels so they could talk properly. “I want you to promise me that you won’t do that with me. With us, if that’s what happens.”

“I believe I am incapable,” said Sherlock simply.

“Good, then.”

“Yes.”

Awkward silence. Sherlock’s constant companion, though usually not at home. He stayed on his back, his hands pressed together and his fingertips resting at his throat. John sat between his ankles and let him think for a while. He thought a bit himself, about the few times he’d been with men...it was harder to do in Afghanistan, ironically enough. And he’d never done something like this, gone after a flatmate or a close friend. Best friend, really. Even without Sherlock being Sherlock it was going to be terribly strange.

“Well, then.” Sherlock interrupted his thoughts and sat up. “John?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to fuck you.”

“...Oh.” John blinked. Sherlock was looking at him as if he’d just told him that he wanted Thai for dinner. “Alright?”

“But not here, this is hardly optimal...” Sherlock got up and grabbed John’s wrist, pulling him to his feet and towards the stairs.

“I didn’t even know you used that word,” said John lamely as they headed up.

“What word?”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock scolded him over his shoulder. “Do you have protection?”

“Yeah,” John choked out. This was moving rather fast. It was very _Sherlock_ , actually, when he thought about it. They went all the way up to John’s room and Sherlock stood in front of the bed like he were staring down a suspect, his stance wide and his gaze thoughtful. John stood behind him and took a deep breath before reaching for his hand and sitting on the bed in front of him.

“Let’s take it slow, alright?” he said. Sherlock watched him thoughtfully as he rubbed his long fingers slowly, massaging the meat of his palm and then the wrist joint. Sherlock pulled his hand away and shrugged off his dressing gown, letting it pool on the floor around him. There was too much space between them, too much room for talking and hesitation and mistakes.

“Come here,” said John, and he scooted back on the bed. Sherlock crawled after him, that hesitant look on his face again. They laid down facing each other and started to make out again, and this time picking up the pace. John let his hand wander all over Sherlock, rubbing at the sensitive spot at the base of his spine, stroking his nipples and dipping his fingers just under the waistline of his pajama pants, careful not to touch that pink burn. Sherlock followed suit, shoving John’s jumper up and out of the way to rub at the outline of his stomach, even stroking his underarms and raking his nails through the hair there. Sherlock tried to pull the sweater off of John but couldn’t. He pulled away instead, ordering him impatiently.

“John, _please_ strip.” John sniggered bashfully as he sat up and complied. He hadn’t done this with anyone since gaining the scar on his shoulder...but Sherlock had seen it before, he doubted it would turn him off.

Still, it was a relief when the detective pushed him back down onto the bed and began to _lick_ it, basically, before moving on to other areas. He paused above John’s navel and lifted up slightly to look at him.

“It has been eight years and seven months since I last had sex. So if you would be patient with me, I would like to note that I have had little practice in these skills.”

“...Eight years, Sherlock?” John was flabbergasted. “You’ve got people falling over you all the time, why wait eight years?!”

“Because people who fall over me are dull. They don’t even know what they’re looking at,” said Sherlock impatiently.

“They’re not _observing_ ,” said John wryly.

“Yes, yes, you’re very clever, Dr. Watson, now shut it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes before dipping down again to nuzzle at John’s groin through his trousers. John tried not to think about how much hearing the word ‘doctor’ come out of that heart-shaped mouth was contributing to his excited state.

“Make me,” said John breathily as Sherlock popped the button on his trousers.

“Of course I will,” retorted Sherlock. He tore John’s pants and trousers down in one go, tossing them on the floor.

“Christ!” John shouted. Sherlock didn’t even bother with the obligatory _but you can call me Sherlock_ joke before he wrapped his long fingers around John’s cock. Instead he started murmuring horrible, filthy things all of a sudden, telling John how long he’d been trying to tease him.

“It was just today, you know, the egg rolls were my absolute last resort, John. Wouldn’t you like to see me with your cock in my mouth like that? Maybe I’ll fetch the soy sauce and coat you with it. I do love that _salty taste_ ,” Sherlock was stroking him slowly and torturously, sometimes just using his foreskin to tease the sensitive head. “That’s the sort of thing you’ve reduced me to, John, for months I’ve been hoping you wouldn’t make me come at you like a common flirt. Ridiculous.” John wouldn’t have guessed that Sherlock liked to talk dirty in bed, but then again he loved the sound of his own voice in every situation, why should this be any different? “Another hour of ignoring me, and I’d have just started stripping for you, do you know that?”

“ _Unnh_ ,” answered John intelligently.

“God, you’re stupid,” said Sherlock as he let go of John’s leaking, rock-hard cock. “And yet I can’t keep away from you, you’re almost as fascinating as a desecrated corpse,” and he kissed John hard while grinding his clothed erection down into his pelvis.

“I liked the other part better,” John gasped. “Go back to the stripping, let’s have that.” He rolled them over slightly and started tugging at Sherlock’s pants clumsily. When they were finally off he seized Sherlock’s slender hips and pinned him down on the bed.

“Unbelievable,” was all he managed to choke out while he admired Sherlock’s dick. Even for a large man this was something else, a prick to write home about, and now it was John’s. He started at the base and licked up before taking the head into his mouth. Sherlock’s hand appeared at his head, encouraging him. John swirled his tongue around it twice and then pulled off with a vulgar pop before mouthing at his length from the side. Sherlock’s obscene diatribe was devolving into a series of grunts peppered with John’s name. Those noises were making John’s dick throb and he angled his legs wide and started rubbing down on the bed, seeking any kind of friction while he sucked off Sherlock. He could have continued like this until they both came but as soon as Sherlock spied him humping the mattress he pulled John away.

“No, you don’t, I want you to come when I am inside of you,” he said testily and rolled away. “There is lubricant in here somewhere,” Sherlock said as he started to tear into John’s bedside cabinet. He threw some condoms onto the bed and everything else onto the floor, making a terrible mess.

“Aw, don’t, Sherlock,” John was in hardly a state to prevent his room from becoming a sty. “My bag, my bag!” Sherlock jumped off the bed and John could hear his cock slapping against his stomach when he went over to the medkit on the desk and dumped it upside down, gauze and tape rolling all over the floor.

“Victory!” Sherlock bounded back with a tube in his hand. Then he pushed John onto his back, arranging some pillows beneath him so he could sit up at an angle. He grinned at John wickedly, who found himself feeling shy again. It had been a long time since he let someone do this.

Sherlock picked up on that, of course, and started to rub his hip and sides reassuringly, and planted wet open kisses while he made his way down to John’s groin. He opened the tube and put a large dollop of it on his fingers before licking John’s dick casually, as if it were an after thought. Then those slick fingers were on his perineum, rubbing slow downward circles, then over his entrance and finally slipping inside.

This time Sherlock was actually very good at teasing. He slipped his fingers in and out like lightning, it had to be giving him hand cramps but John didn’t care because the sensation on his asshole was fantastic. Each time he got a little more of his finger in and then worked in a second.

“John, are you paying attention?” Sherlock asked quietly. John wanted to say something sarcastic but he could only nod as he gripped the bedclothes with both fists and squirmed around Sherlock’s hand.

“This is for saying I was shit at non-verbal communication,” he said smugly as he dove three fingers inside and stroked expertly at John’s prostate. The painful burn and the tiny death of pleasure made John gnash his teeth and pound his fist down onto the bed, caught between the instinct to push Sherlock away and the instinct to beg for more.

“ _Gruh_ , you arrogant prick...!” But Sherlock’s face went serious again.

“John, may I fuck you now? Please?” There was that _please_ again, where the hell was that coming from? John looked down at Sherlock’s open face with those heavy-lidded gray eyes and then at his long red cock bobbing against his stomach.

“Yeah,” he said weakly. “Yeah.” Sherlock spread his fingers one last time before withdrawing and grabbing a condom. He helped John spread his legs, lifting his knees up and out, and John rook the condom and rolled it onto him, giving his prick a squeeze before letting him go. Then the head of his cock was there, pressing against him and John unconsciously held his breath, nodding one last time in answer to Sherlock’s questioning look before he was invaded.

More burn, and more unpleasant stretching. Sherlock went a little too fast and John was shaking underneath him, his eyes closed and his face contorted. The pain was more than he’d thought it would be, maybe because it had been so long, or...

“John?” said Sherlock. He almost sounded afraid, if he were capable of such a thing.

“J-just hold it,” John huffed. Sherlock froze, maybe a few inches inside him and he just stared as John relaxed slowly, unraveling himself piece by piece. When the burn had gone away almost completely he had to have a small, breathless laugh of relief. He could feel his body clenching around the head of Sherlock’s cock and he nodded, giving him the go-ahead to start moving.

Sherlock was tense and sweating as he slowly entered, millimeter by millimeter. John wasn’t really enjoying it but he craved some kind of completion now, to finish what they had started. He wanted to see what Sherlock’s face would look like if he came inside of him.

When John’s balls were flush with Sherlock’s stomach they were still for a moment. Then John clenched around him encouragingly and wiggled a bit. Sherlock inhaled with a hiss and then started to move. He slipped out halfway and came in again, this time hitting John’s prostate so that the burn was completely forgotten. He began to speed up, his eyes on John’s face, silently watching him for signs of pain.

John wasn’t in any pain, though he was amazed at how much he could feel inside of him. Sherlock was huge and invading and hot, digging into him harshly and rubbing against his sweet spot. His own cock started to stiffen again, slapping obscenely between them as Sherlock went faster and harder, snapping his hips and grunting with exertion. John started to moan, and reached between them to jack himself off, matching Sherlock’s pace exactly.

“Go, go,” Sherlock groaned out in approval. He leaned up a bit and pulled all the way out, looking down between them to watch his cock disappear into that dark tight flesh as he thrust in again, hard. Watching Sherlock watch them fuck was what pushed John over the edge, and he came with a sort of low-pitched scream, an attempt at Sherlock’s name that he gave up as he imploded, shooting white up onto his own chest and stomach.

One, two thrusts later and Sherlock was gone, his eyes open but not seeing and his mouth working silently as he came. While John felt as though he were melting into jelly, Sherlock pulled out and collapsed next to him, hiding his face in a pillow.

“Mmf,” John reached down and helped Sherlock pull off the condom, tying it and then slowly getting to his feet. He went to the bathroom to toss it and clean himself up. He brought back a towel for Sherlock and was worried to find him in the same position, prone and with his face hidden.

“Hey,” he said softly and shook the larger man by the shoulder. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

Sherlock rolled over. His face looked stunned. He took the towel from John and wiped himself down, blinking up at the ceiling.

“Sherlock.” John shook him a little harder this time.

“You’ll teach me, won’t you?” Sherlock snapped back to reality.

“Teach you what?”

“I want to learn to tease you.”

“Why?” John couldn’t believe that after such a lovely shag he’d be fixated on this one thing that he sucked at.

“All I could think of was you watching me. I never cared about that sort of thing before.” Sherlock pulled John down onto the bed and threw his long, awkward limbs around him. “I want you to be falling all over me.”

“That sounds good,” said John with a shrug. “Right now I’d like to sleep all over you, if that’s alright.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything more, just kissed him sloppily on the forehead and pulled the covers over them both. The last thing on John’s mind before he went to sleep was where they should order more egg rolls from.


End file.
